5 


THE  PURE  GOLD 


ij  NINETEENTH  | 
CENTURY     1 
1  LITERATURE  r 

[WILLIAM  LVON  PHELPS 


Cfie  pure  <DolD  of 
Centurp  literature 


CCfte  ^Qure  eoft  of 

jQinetecnfl)  CCcnturp 

Utterature 

1Bp  IflJilliam  fLpon  Pbelps 


Hampton 


<Cn0Ti;sft  literature  at 


>  Ctotoell  &  Co. 


COPYRIGHT,   1907,  BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 
PUBLISHED  SEPTEMBER,   1907 


D.  B.  UPDIKE,  THE  MERRYMOUNT  PRESS,  BOSTON 


Co  mj>  W&itt 


Contents 


PAGE 

THE  POETS  3 

KEATS  4 

WORDSWORTH  6 

BROWNING  9 

BYRON  13 

SHELLEY  15 

TENNYSON  IJ 

OTHER  POETS  19 

THE  MASTERS  OF  PROSE  2O 

STEVENSON  21 

DICKENS  23 

THACKERAY  25 

JANE  AUSTEN  27 

GEORGE  ELIOT  28 

HARDY  30 

CARLYLE  32 

RUSKIN,  MACAULAY,  AND  OTHERS  34 


Deface 

THIS  little  book,  which  in  its  first 
form  was  a  contribution  to  a  periodi- 
cal, and  which  has  now  been  completely 
revised  and  almost  completely  rewritten, 
is  an  attempt  to  appraise  and  assay  the 
precious  material  in  the  literary  output  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  I  have  confined 
myself  entirely  to  British  production;  and 
I  have  endeavoured  to  be  as  brief  as  is  con- 
sistent with  the  form  of  a  literary  essay. 

w.  L.  P. 

Tale  University,  22  March,  1907 


pure  <$olD  of 
iRineteenti)  Centurp  Literature 


Cfre  Pure  <$oiu  of 
Jgfneteenty  Century  Literature 


THERE  is  only  one  period  of  Eng- 
lish literature  that  can  compare  in 
creative  activity  with  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, and  that  is  the  Elizabethan.  Domi- 
nated by  the  supreme  literary  genius  of 
the  world,  glorified  by  an  array  of  drama- 
tists whose  combined  work  outshines  the 
Hellenic  stage,  the  Elizabethan  era  may 
perhaps  be  called  the  greatest  period  of 
the  greatest  literature  on  the  planet.  But 
with  the  exception  of  the  mighty  names 
of  Bacon  and  Spenser,  the  age  of  the  Vir- 
gin Queen  found  its  chief  expression  in 
the  drama;  while  the  age  of  Victoria  be- 
wilders the  critic  fully  as  much  by  the 
splendid  variety  of  its  literary  production 
as  by  its  extraordinary  excellence.  Poetry, 
fiction,  and  criticism,  —  in  these  three 

3 


great  departments  the  last  century  reveals 
masters.  Let  us  consider  some  of  these. 

Seats 

WHILE  the  nineteenth  century 
was  yet  in  its  first  quarter,  Eng- 
lish literature  suffered  a  terrible  loss, — a 
loss  that,  as  our  perspective  grows  clearer, 
seems  ever  more  poignant.  This  was  the 
premature  death  of  John  Keats.  Dying  at 
the  age  of  twenty-five,  before  most  men 
of  genius  have  done  mature  work,  Keats 
left  behind  him  a  small  number  of  poems 
that  have  given  him  an  undisputed  place 
in  the  front  rank  of  English  poets.  Even 
as  it  is,  his  reputation  is  growing  so  rapidly 
that  the  critics  of  the  year  Two  Thou- 
sand may  place  him  as  the  first  poet  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  He  was  born  in 
the  same  year  with  Carlyle.  Had  he  lived 
one-half  so  long  as  the  great  Scotsman,  he 
might  have  surpassed  all  other  British 
poets  except  Shakspere ;  for  he  had  to  a 
supreme  degree  the  divine  gift  of  poetic 
4 


expression  :  none  of  his  followers  or  sue- 
cessors,  not  even  his  chief  legatee,  Ten- 
nyson, equalled  him  in  this  respect:  the 
Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  Ode  to  a  Nightin- 
galep,  'The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes ,  Hyper  ion , — 
these  show  a  complete  mastery  of  diction 
that  no  other  English  poets  except  Shak- 
spere  and  Milton  possessed.  And  the  won- 
derful thing  about  the  man  is  that  he  de- 
veloped with  such  astonishing  speed;  nor 
was  his  growth  unhealthy,  tainted  with 
the  germs  of  disease,  like  his  suffering 
frame.  The  glow  on  his  immortal  verses  is 
not  the  hectic  flush  of  sickness,  but  the 
radiance  of  spiritual  health.  No  one  can 
read  his  remarkable  Letters  and  fail  to  see 
how  steady  was  his  intellectual  advance; 
how  clearly  he  recognized  his  own  powers, 
and  the  proper  way  to  use  them ;  how 
noble  was  his  ideal  in  poetry,  and  how 
gladly  he  would  sacrifice  everything  in 
its  pursuit.  Of  all  the  "great  spirits  that 
on  earth  were  sojourning"  Keats  was  the 
most  purely  a  poet.  His  poems  belong  to 

5 


no  age,  no  country,  and  no  creed.  Poli- 
tics and  religion  had  no  real  interest  for 
him,  as  his  poems  and  letters  plainly  show. 
While  other  poets  filled  their  pages  with 
allusions  to  political  and  moral  issues, 
Keats  wrote  about  Greek  vases,  night- 
ingales, and  romantic  legends.  Who  can 
say  what  masterpieces  this  man  would 
have  produced  had  he  lived  to  middle 
age  ?  All  we  know  is  that  they  would  have 
been  masterpieces,  and  in  all  probability 
would  have  surpassed  most  of  what  is  now 
included  in  his  works. 

"My  poet  holds  the  future  fast, 

Accepts  the  coming  ages'  duty, 
Their  present  for  this  past." 


IN  addition  to  the  name  of  Keats,  the 
nineteenth  century  can  show  five  oth- 
er poets,  who  now  seem  to  have  a  fixed 
place  in  the  first  rank.  These  are  Words- 
worth, Byron,  Shelley,  Tennyson,  and 
Browning.  The  first  and  last  are  prophets 


as  well  as  poets,  —  each  of  the  two  has  a 
right  to  the  name  Vates  as  well  as  Poeta .  UlOttl) 
They  wrote  many  beautiful  poems,  but 
in  their  marvellous  melodies  we  hear  the 
voice  of  a  prophetic  mission.  It  is  unfor- 
tunately true  to  say,  in  estimating  the 
value  of  Wordsworth's  poetic  production, 
that  his  high  reputation  rests  on  about 
one-third  of  his  total  output,  the  bulky 
remainder  being  mostly  chaff.  But  when 
his  sublime  moods  become  articulate,  he 
appeals  to  thoughtful  readers  irresistibly, 
and  is  by  many  critics  of  to-day  given  the 
third  place  in  English  poetry,  immedi- 
ately after  Milton  ;  for  Wordsworth  is 
our  great  spiritual  interpreter  of  nature. 
In  this  field  he  has  never  had  an  equal 
among  English  writers,  and  but  one  suc- 
cessful rival  in  the  world,  —  his  great  con- 
temporary, Goethe.  His  view  of  nature 
is  of  course  a  modern  one,  a  view  cur- 
tained even  to  Shakspere  and  Milton,  for 
the  eyes  of  humanity  grow  sharp  by  time 
and  use.  Shakspere  could  no  more  have 

7 


written  the  Tintern  Abbey  lines  than  he 
tDOttt)  could  have  travelled  from  Stratford  to 
London  in  an  express  train.  Wordsworth 
regarded  nature  as  in  some  mysterious  way 
a  five,  spiritual  and  immaterial,  and  able 
to  teach  all  lessons  that  mankind  needed 
to  learn.  The  function  of  the  poet  is  to 
discover  these  truths,  often  hidden  from 
the  wise  and  prudent,  and  reveal  them  to 
his  fellows.  We  need  not  seek  here  to  an- 
alyze his  interpretations :  it  has  been  done 
by  many  a  prose  critic,  and  its  essence 
has  been  poetically  expressed  in  a  final 
form  by  Matthew  Arnold  and  by  Wil- 
liam Watson,  whose  extraordinary  poem, 
Wordsworth's  Grave  ^  is  worthy  of  the  mas- 
ter it  portrays : 

"From  Shelley's  dazzling  glow  or  thunderous 

haze, 

From  Byron's  tempest-anger,  tempest-mirth, 
Men  turned  to  thee  and  found — not  blast  and 

blaze, 

Tumult  of  tottering  heavens,  but  peace  on 
earth." 

Wordsworth  drew  from  nature  the  les- 


sons  of  calm  and  rest,  and  no  century  ever  15tOtDU5 
needed  him  more  than  the  turbulent  nine- 
teenth.  In  a  striking  passage  in  his  Auto- 
biography ^  John  Stuart  Mill  confesses  that 
Wordsworth  brought  him  from  darkness 
to  light,  and  no  greater  tribute  to  the  poet's 
power  was  ever  paid  than  by  this  "logic- 
chopping  engine:  " 

"  I  seemed  to  draw  from  a  source  of  in- 
wardjoy,  of  sympathetic  and  imaginative 
pleasure,  which  could  be  shared  in  by  all 
human  beings.  .  .  .  I  seemed  to  learn  what 
would  be  the  perennial  sources  of  happi- 
ness. ...  I  felt  myself  at  once  better  and 
happier." 


THE  last  one  of  the  giant  race  to 
make  his  appearance  was  Robert 
Browning.  This  unique  figure  has  a 
double  claim  on  our  attention.  Of  all 
British  poets  he  is  the  most  truly  origi- 
nal. After  his  boyhood  he  never  came 
under  the  influence  of  his  predecessors  or 

9 


* contemporaries,  but  struck  out  into  en- 
tirely unbroken  paths,  in  which  his  read- 
ers follow  with  security  and  delight.  He 
wrote  steadily  for  thirty  years  to  a  public 
which  remained  stolidly  antagonistic;  but 
he  forced  them  finally  into  a  complete 
acknowledgement  of  his  genius.  Besides 
his  astonishing  intellectual  vigour  and 
strange  newness  of  expression,  it  is  now 
commonly  agreed  that  in  the  width  of 
his  sympathies,  and  in  his  analysis  of  all 
phases  of  human  life  and  character,  he  has 
passed  all  other  English  poets  except 
Shakspere.  He  is  the  "subtle  assertor  of 
the  soul  in  song/*  As  a  psychologist  in 
verse  he  towers  over  all  other  writers  of 
his  century. 

"Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and  hale 
No  man  has  walked  along  our  roads  with  step 
So  adlive,  so  enquiring  eye,  or  tongue 
So  varied  in  discourse." 

His  resonant,  triumphant  voice  drowns 
the  chorus  of  lamentation  sung  by  nine- 
teenth century  poets  all  over  the  world. 
10 


The  familiar  note  of  yearning  and  vain  15tOtDtts 
regret  was  not  in  his  register.  His  cree 
was  positive,  and  is  summed  up  in  the 
conclusion  of  his  first  poem,  Pauline: 

"I  believe  in  God  and  truth 
And  love." 

He  was  not  afraid  to  be  an  unflinching 
optimist  at  exactly  the  time  when  pes- 
simism was  most  fashionable.  His  op- 
timism is  more  encouraging  and  stimu- 
lating than  that  of  Emerson,  because 
Browning  clearly  sees  and  recognizes  the 
dark  side  of  life.  What  he  set  forth  in 
Paracelsus  he  maintained  stoutly  to  the 
end,  —  the  necessity  of  imperfection, — 
nay,  the  joy  and  glory  of  it.  For  imperfec- 
tion is  necessarily  associated  with  progress 
and  development,  and  the  stumbling- 
block  becomes  the  soul's  stepping-stone. 
His  treatment  of  religious  doubt,  which 
casts  so  deep  a  shadow  over  the  work 
of  his  contemporaries,  is  a  case  in  point. 
Were  there  no  doubt,  were  the  future 
life  patent,  there  could  be  no  real  virtue. 

ii 


*  Virtue  lies  in  the  struggle,  not  in  calm, 
submissive  acquiescence. 

"  I  count  life  just  a  stuff 
To  try  the  soul's  strength  on,  educe  the  man." 

Everything  in  life  can  be  made  service- 
able to  the  man  strong  in  unselfishness, 
the  man  of  faith  and  ideals.  Perhaps  the 
limitless  extent  of  his  optimism  is  shown 
best  by  his  similitudes.  He  loves  to  take 
a  proverb  which  reveals  the  unconscious 
pessimism  of  humanity,  like  "No  rose 
without  its  thorn,"  and  twist  it  into  a 
source  of  comfort.  In  the  speech  of  the 
Pope  in  'The  Ring  and  the  Book^ — a  speech 
that  in  some  respe6ts  indicates  the  high- 
water  mark  of  nineteenth  century  poetry, 
— we  find  this  passage,  which  it  is  safe 
to  say  no  one  but  Browning  would  have 
written :  uc 

"bo  a  thorn 

Comes  to  the  aid  of  and  completes  the  rose — 
Courage  to-wit,  no  woman's  gift  nor  priest's." 

Browning  is  not  a  sedative :  he  is  a  tonic. 
Of  all  the  great  thought-leaders  of  the 
century,   none  is  more   thrilling,   more 
12 


stimulating,  and  more  encouraging  in  the 
call  to  manhood. 


FEW  literary  men  have  had  a  greater 
intellectual  endowment  than  Lord 
Byron.  His  genius  has  seldom  been  se- 
riously doubted,  and  in  fields  of  expres- 
sion so  far  apart  as  song  and  satire  he 
ranks  with  the  masters.  His  keen  wit  and 
his  lyrical  gift  are  alike  remarkable.  Not 
many  are  the  instances  where  a  writer  has 
in  his  own  lifetime  enjoyed  a  reputation 
and  influence  such  as  his.  He  is  one  of 
the  greatest  of  germinal  poets.  With 
the  exception  of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau, 
whose  strange  figure  always  appears  un- 
der every  literary  movement  of  modern 
times,  Byron  has  perhaps  influenced  Con- 
tinental letters  more  than  any  English- 
man since  his  'death.  From  Pushkin  in 
the  north  to  the  Italians  in  the  south, 
poetry  in  all  languages  was  tinged  with 
Byron's  romantic  melancholy.  From  the 


greatest  writer  of  the  modern  epoch  — 
Goethe  —  down  to  the  small  fry  who 
merely  a<5t  as  literary  thermometers,  we 
see  plainly  indicated  the  presence  of  the 
great  Spoiled  Child.  The  spell  of  his 
lovely  melody  is  still  potent,  but  his  work 
has  one  fatal  taint,  —  insincerity.  The 
world  did  not  need  Byron's  example  to 
prove  that  one  may  be  a  great  poet  with- 
out being  a  good  man.  But  the  lack  of 
moral  values  is  apt  to  prevent  one  from 
realizing  his  highest  possibilities  as  an 
artist.  That  Byron  accomplished  at  times 
first-class  work,  that  he  was  a  first-class 
poet,  all  unprejudiced  critics  must  admit; 
but  if  he  had  maintained  an  attitude  to- 
ward his  art  like  that  of  Tennyson,  —  if,  in 
short,  he  had  behaved  like  a  responsible 
person,  there  would  have  been  less  wasted 
energy  in  his  productions,  and  his  influ- 
ence would  have  been  deeper  and  more 
lasting.  The  great  sin  in  his  life  is  not  his 
sensual  and  other  irregularities :  it  is  the 
use  he  made  of  his  marvellous  gifts.  He 
14 


chose  to  write,  not  like  a  poet,  but  "li 
a  gentleman."  With  him  poetry  was  not 
a  sacred  calling,  not  even  an  art  :  it  was 
an  accomplishment,  like  swimming  and 
shooting.  His  work  accordingly  suffers. 
There  is  always  the  doubt  of  his  sincer- 
ity :  in  his  finest  frenzies  there  is  some- 
thing of  the  poseur. 


ALTHOUGH  Shelley  died  at  the 
age  of  twenty-nine,  he  had  appar- 
ently reached  his  full  development.  His 
death  was  a  great  loss  to  English  litera- 
ture, but  not  nearly  so  severe  as  that  of 
Keats.  Ic  is  doubtful  if  Shelley  would  ever 
have  excelled  his  previous  performances, 
which,  to  be  sure,  are  splendid  enough 
to  make  his  position  in  English  poetry 
unassailable.  What  is  immediately  notice- 
able in  his  work  is  the  soaring  quality  of 
his  imagination.  Some  genuine  poets  have 
their  feet  on  the  earth,  like  Ben  Jonson 
and  Dryden;  some  are  "swimmers  in 

'5 


the  atmosphere  ;"  but  Shelley  leaves  the 
earth  far  behind,  and  sweeps  away  into 
the  aether.  Browning's  epithet  was  a 
happy  one,  —  Sun-treader.  Shelley  is  the 
eagle  of  poetry,  whose  pinions  love  thin 
air,  and  whose  eyes  look  into  the  sun.  He 
calls  to  us  from  lonely  heights  above  the 
clouds,  and  we  cannot  always  follow  him, 
for  we  cannot  breathe  such  rarefied  air. 
...  As  a  lyrist  and  song-writer,  he  is 
second  only  to  Shakspere.  His  lyrics  are 
ideals  of  what  true  lyrics  should  be,  the 
expression  of  one  mood  in  perfect  song. 
Like  his  contemporary  Keats,  he  made 
no  important  contribution  to  the  thought 
of  the  age,  but  he  left  a  priceieoS  legacy 
of  immortal  forms  of  verse.  His  reputa- 
tion has  increased  rather  than  diminished 
with  the  passage  of  time,  and  we  see  now 
that  in  his  own  field  his  followers  have 
not  reached  him. 

"Thou  art  gone  from  us;  years  go  by  and  Spring 
Gladdens  and  the  young  earth  is  beautiful, 
Yet  thy  songs  come  not ;  other  bards  arise, 
But  none  like  thee." 
16 


Cenn^on 

THE  most  representative  poet  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  the  laureate 
in  fact  as  well  as  in  name,  is  of  course 
Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson.  Living  as  he  did 
in  every  decade  of  the  century,  his  is  not 
only  its  clearest  singing  voice,  but  the 
most  faithful  expression  of  its  ideas.  Ten- 
nyson was  an  all-around  poet,  succeeding 
in  every  department  of  poetry  except  the 
drama.  There  his  lack  of  originality  and 
of  passion  caused  him  to  make  almost  a 
complete  failure ;  for,  in  the  truest  sense 
of  the  word,  Tennyson  was  not  an  ori- 
ginal man ;  his  mind,  as  reflected  in  his 
verse  and  particularly  in  the  more  inti- 
mate Memoir  by  his  son,  seems  rather 
narrow  and  commonplace.  He  was  pro- 
foundly interested  in  the  great  religious, 
moral,  political,  social,  and  scientific  pro- 
blems of  his  time  ;  but  he  translated  in- 
to verse  the  thoughts  of  others,  instead 
of  making  any  distinct  contribution  of 


his  own.  Like  many  writers,  he  stated 
problems  rather  than  solved  them.  And 
underneath  his  clear  and  beautiful  ex- 
position, we  find  no  deeply  original  or 
markedly  individual  point  of  view,  as  in 
A  Death  in  the  Desert  or  Bishop  Eloug- 
rams  Apology.  But  one  of  the  truest  func- 
tions of  the  poet  is  to  represent  clearly,  to 
be  the  spokesman  for  his  age  ;  and  no  one 
ever  lived  more  fully  up  to  this  ideal  than 
Tennyson.  Practically  all  of  the  philoso- 
phical, scientific,  and  political  thought  of 
the  nineteenth  century  may  be  found  in 
his  work,  usually  expressed  in  almost  per- 
fect forms  of  verse  ;  for  Tennyson  was  a 
consummate  artist.  In  epic,  descriptive, 
narrative,  and  lyrical  poetry  he  is  now 
generally  regarded  as  the  foremost  man 
of  his  epoch.  Historically  he  is  the  child 
of  Keats,  and  while  perhaps  he  never 
wrote  any  one  poem  so  perfect  as  the 
best  productions  of  his  master,  he  wrote 
so  large  an  amount  of  admirable  poetry 
that  he  exercised  in  his  day  an  enormous 
18 


influence,  not  merely  over  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  readers,  but  over  all  con- 
temporary  poets  except  Browning.  And 
the  loyal  friendship  of  these  two  men  is 
one  of  the  beautiful  things  in  the  annals 
of  literature,  —  as  beautiful  as  the  noble- 
ness and  purity  of  their  lives. 


BESIDES  the  poets  of  the  first  rank 
enumerated  above,  a  considerable 
number  of  English  writers  have  made 
permanent  additions  to  poetical  literature. 
Perhaps  Coleridge  and  Mrs.  Browning 
ought  to  be  included  in  the  first  class  : 
if  that  be  so,  the  latter  is  the  only  wo- 
man who  has  a  good  claim  to  so  exalted 
a  position.  In  view  of  the  facl:  that  wo- 
men have  always  loved  and  appreciated 
poetry,  and  that  so  prodigious  a  number 
of  them  have  essayed  poetic  composition, 
the  loneliness  of  Mrs.  Browning  is  sin- 
gular enough.  Other  poets  of  the  cen- 

19 


tury  whose  work  will  endure  are  Ros- 

Setti,  Matthew  Arnold,  Scott,  and  possibly 

Of  10IOSE 

Swinburne,  though  the  latter's  fame  ap- 

pears to  be  already  waning.  Clough  and 
Landor  wrote  some  poems  that  will  never 
be  forgotten,  and  many  writers  have  pro- 
duced a  few  things  that  the  world  will 
not  willingly  let  die.  As  for  Kipling  and 
Stephen  Phillips,  their  best  works  may  yet 
be  unwritten.  Let  us  hope,  at  any  rate, 
that  they  may  ultimately  belong  to  the 
twentieth  rather  than  to  the  nineteenth 
century. 


of 

ENGLAND'S  contribution  to  prose 
ficlion  during  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury was  splendid.  Novelists  of  the  first 
rank  are  Scott,  Jane  Austen,   Dickens, 
Thackeray,  George  Eliot,  Stevenson;  and 
to  this  roll  of  honour  time  will  probably 
add  the  name  of  Thomas  Hardy.  In  the 
early  years  of  the  century,  Sir  Walter 
looms  up  in  colossal  proportions.  His  style 
20 


was  usually  careless  and  often  slipshod. 
He  never  produced  a  flawless  masterpiece,  # 
and  many  of  his  productions  cannot  pos- 
sibly be  called  works  of  art.  But  in  power 
of  invention  he  was  a  giant  ;  he  is  one 
of  the  greatest  of  all  literary  athletes.  His 
superabundant  vitality  breathed  into  his 
scenes  of  action  and  into  his  men  and  wo- 
men the  very  breath  of  life.  When  we 
remember  that  in  three  successive  years 
he  produced  The  Heart  of  *  Midlothian  ,  The 
Bride  of  Lammermoor  ^  and  Ivanhoe,  we  need 
not  wonder  that  he  has  never  been  de- 
throned. He  remains  the  king  of  English 
Romanticists. 


WITH  the  brilliant  exception  of 
Henry  Esmond^  no  English  ro- 
mances successfully  challenged  the  best 
books  of  Walter  Scott  until,  toward  the 
end  of  the  century,  another  Scotsman 
charmed  the  world  with  his  tales  of  the 
heather  and  the  sea,  —  Robert  Louis  Ste- 

21 


;  venson.  The  stories  of  this  sprightly  inva- 
lid, written  with  an  art  unknown  to  Scott, 
are  still  in  the  first  flush  of  their  fame.  His 
supreme  achievement  was  to  show  that 
a  book  might  be  crammed  with  thrilling 
adventures,  and  yet  reveal  profound  and 
acute  analysis  of  character,  and  be  adorned 
with  all  the  graces  of  a  beautiful  literary 
style.  The  mere  story  holds  us  in  breath- 
less suspense ;  but  even  in  the  most  stir- 
ring moments  the  manner  of  the  narra- 
tor never  loses  its  distinction.  He  was  a 
poet,  a  dramatist,  an  essayist,  and  a  nov- 
elist; but  his  works  of  fiction,  owing  to 
their  peculiar  brightness  and  charm,  have 
overshadowed  his  other  writings.  He  had 
the  rather  unusual  combination  of  the 
artist  and  the  moralist,  but  he  was  not  pri- 
marily a  moral  teacher.  The  virtue  of  his 
tales  consists  in  their  wholesome  ethical 
quality,  in  their  solid  health.  And  apart 
from  the  intrinsic  value  of  his  books, 
Stevenson  will  in  the  future  occupy  a 
large  place  in  the  history  of  English  fic- 

22 


tion,  for  his  influence  on  other  writers 
was  exceedingly  strong.  The  paradox  is 
that  from  this  sick  man's  chamber  came 
the  fresh,  life-giving  breeze  that  swept 
away  the  microbes  from  contemporary 
literature.  Fresh  air  is  often  better  for  the 
soul  than  the  swinging  of  the  priest's  cen- 
ser. At  a  time  when  the  school  of  natural- 
ism was  at  its  climax,  Stevenson  opened 
the  windows.  The  oppressive  sultriness 
vanished.  And  what  he  accomplished  for 
his  age,  he  will  always  accomplish  for 
the  individual.  For  the  morbid  and  un- 
healthy period  of  adolescence,  his  books 
are  more  healthful  than  many  didactic 
treatises. 


IN  fiction,  Dickens  and  Thackeray  are 
the  twin  giants  of  the  Victorian  age, 
as  Tennyson  and  Browning  are  in  poetry. 
Their  reputation  is  secure.  It  is  true  that 
a  reaction  against  Dickens  set  in  some 
time  ago,  but  it  was  a  movement  both 


futile  and  ephemeral.  Tried  by  the  most 
cruel  of  all  tests,  the  test  of  time,  which 
has  taken  away  some  of  the  glitter  and 
tinsel  from  his  name,  we  find  the  pure 
gold  more  bright  than  ever.  Indeed,  if 
we  may  judge  by  the  enormous  sales  of 
his  books  in  this  present  year  (1907)  and 
by  the  multiplication  of  serious  critical 
works  on  his  life  and  art,  his  power  over 
humanity  is  greater  than  ever.  What 
would  the  history  of  nineteenth  century 
fiction  have  been  without  him  ?  It  is  true 
that  there  are  many  things  in  his  novels 
which  repel  fastidious  readers.  His  ten- 
dency to  make  stump  speeches  in  the 
midst  of  his  narrative,  his  frequent  de- 
scent to  melodrama,  and  his  unpleasantly 
sentimental  pathos  often  jar  harshly  on 
sensitive  minds.  But  the  common  people 
heard  him  gladly.  He  brought  sunshine 
into  thousands  of  shadowed  hearts.  His 
abounding  humour,  his  overflowing  hu- 
man sympathy,  and  his  immortal  carica- 
tures sprang  from  a  vital  force  that  age 
24 


cannot  wither  nor  custom  stale.  Pickwick 
Papers,  Bleak  House,  David  Copperfield, — 
can  time  lessen  the  greatness  of  such 
mighty  encyclopaedias  of  life? 


THACKERAY'S  reputation  has  ne- 
ver been  bitterly  assailed  like  that 
of  his  great  contemporary,  possibly  be- 
cause the  number  of  his  readers  was,  and 
is,  not  nearly  so  large*  Every  passing  year 
finds  his  name  brighter,  the  circle  of  his 
thoughtful  admirers  wider,  and  his  posi- 
tion in  English  literature  firmer.  In  the 
history  of  English  fiftion  perhaps  no  one 
has  a  better  claim  to  first  place.  The  charge 
of  snobbery  and  cynicism,  made  so  often 
against  his  personal  character  in  his  life- 
time, is  now  seen  to  have  no  foundation. 
It  is  curious  that  many  readers  still  call 
his  books  cynical,  for  his  brilliant  pages 
constantly  reveal  two  qualities  wholly  in- 
compatible with  cynicism, —  sympathy 


*  and  enthusiasm.  His  sympathy  with  hu- 
manity, though  not  so  demonstratively 
expressed  as  that  of  Dickens,  was  fully  as 
keen.  Indeed,  the  chief  defect  in  his  writ- 
ings comes  from  a  nature  exactly  the  oppo- 
site of  the  cynic's, — that  of  the  preacher. 
Like  so  many  Englishmen,  he  is  not  con- 
tent to  let  his  creations  speak  for  them- 
selves, like  the  lilies  of  the  field ;  in  the 
most  thrilling  point  of  the  drama  he  must 
forget  the  role  of  impersonality  and  don 
the  preacher's  vestments.  This  unfortu- 
nate mannerism  makes  T'he  Newcomes,  in 
spite  of  its  great  death  scene,  irritating  to 
many  readers  and  in  places  almost  unen- 
durable. But  at  its  best  Thackeray's  art 
is  impeccable.  Vanity  Fair,  with  its  un- 
forgettable characters,  and  Henry  Esmond, 
the  best  historical  romance  in  the  lan- 
guage, are  books  that  no  other  man  could 
have  written  ;  and  if  anything  may  be 
called  the  pure  gold  of  literature,  it  is 
surely  such  works  as  these. 


31ane 

JANE  AUSTEN  and  George  Eliot 
are  the  only  women  novelists  of  the 
century  who  may  unhesitatingly  be  as- 
signed to  the  first  class.  In  her  time  Miss 
Austen's  novels  were  as  completely  over- 
shadowed by  the  mighty  works  of  Walter 
Scott  as  her  physical  strength  would  have 
been  by  his  robust  masculine  vigour.  But 
she  was  one  of  those  rare  individuals  who 
are  content  to  work  for  th  e  sake  of  the  work 
alone.  "Art  for  art's  sake,"  a  proverb  as 
grievously  mishandled  as  Horn  soit,  is  pe- 
culiarly applicable  to  the  novels  of  this 
extraordinary  maiden.  She  created  mas- 
terpiece after  masterpiece,  seeking  no  re- 
cognition and  finding  little,  but  working 
with  no  less  painstaking  art.  She  could 
not  have  written  books  like  Pride  and 
Prejudice  without  realizing  to  some  extent 
their  solid  worth;  but  she  would  indeed 
have  been  amazed  had  she  received  a  re- 
velation of  her  twentieth  century  fame. 

27 


Time  has  redeemed  and  paid  in  full  all 
her  drafts  upon  the  future,  and  she  pos- 
sesses to-day  a  wealth  of  reputation  which 
cannot  be  stolen  by  aspiring  rivals  nor 
corrupted  by  the  rust  of  years.  In  her 
books  the  style  is  so  perfectly  adapted 
to  the  matter  that  to  the  uninitiated  it 
often  seems  no  style  at  all.  It  is  the  final 
triumph  of  art, —  the  exact  counterfeit  of 
nature.  Never  progressing  into  strange 
or  forbidden  territory,  never  resorting  to 
adventure  or  excitement,  her  books  hold 
our  attention  by  their  likeness  to  life. 
She  succeeded  to  a  high  degree  in  pro- 
ducing the  illusion  which  is  the  essence 
of  all  great  art:  we  do  not  feel  that  her 
persons  are  creatures  of  the  imagination; 
they  rather  seem  to  belong  among  our 
intimate  acquaintances. 


G 


:EORGE  ELIOT  had  the  good 
fortune  to  see  her  literary  children 


receive  the  warm  welcome  they  so  richly 
deserved.  Indeed,  it  is  possible  that  the  ^ 
number  of  her  readers  is  not  quite  so  large 
to-day  as  it  was  in  her  declining  years. 
If  this  be  true,  it  is  a  lamentable  fact,  prob- 
ably due  in  part  to  the  recent  rage  for 
romanticism,  and  in  part  also  because  her 
career  was  something  of  an  anticlimax. 
She  drifted  away  from  the  great  currents 
of  art  toward  the  dreary  doldrums  of 
philosophy  and  sociology.  With  the  pos- 
sible exception  of  Mrs.  Browning,  she 
had  perhaps  the  most  powerful  feminine 
intellect  among  the  English  of  the  cen- 
tury, and  her  learning  sometimes  hin- 
dered rather  than  helped  her  progress. 
She  was  an  intensely  serious  woman,  and 
she  seemed  to  forget  that  nothing  is  more 
truly  serious  than  a  great  portrayal  of  life 
artistically  and  reverently  made.  Her  best 
books  were  her  first:  as  time  advances, 
Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,  Adam  Bede,  The 
Mill  on  the  Floss  stand  out  supreme,  while 
Daniel  Deronda  is  slowly  falling  under  its 

29 


own  weight.  We  may  be  sure,  no  matter 
what  the  caprices  and  fluctuations  of  lit- 
erary fashions  may  be,  that  George  Eliot 
will  never  be  forgotten,  and  that  the  dust 
will  never  accumulate  on  her  noble  vol- 
umes. Such  wisdom  as  hers  is  too  precious 
to  be  long  neglecled;  and  in  every  age 
there  will  be  discriminating  readers,  who, 
weary  of  the  showiness  that  so  often  ac- 
companies superficiality,  will  turn  to  her 
rich  pages  and  find  life  indeed. 


HOSTS  of  other  novelists  of  the  cen- 
tury might  be  mentioned  if  there 
were  space.  We  are  looking  only  at  the 
foremost  names.  Among  living  novelists, 
Thomas  Hardy  stands  easily  first.  His 
work  during  thirty  years,  always  con- 
scientious if  sometimes  mistaken,  repre- 
sents a  level  of  excellence  that  none  of 
his  contemporaries,  not  even  the  erratic 
and  brilliant  Meredith,  can  equal.  The 
30 


rustic  cackle  of  his  bourg  drowns  the 
murmur  of  the  world,  which  stops  to 
hear  the  human  comedy  played,  ever  old 
and  ever  new,- in  incomparable  Wessex. 
He  is  the  great  pessimist  of  our  age,  as 
Stevenson  was  its  joyous  optimist.  But 
his  pessimism  is  not  the  result  of  a  mind 
out  of  tune,  nor  is  it  flavoured  with  the 
gall  of  the  cynic.  His  pessimism  rises 
from  an  almost  abnormal  sympathy  with 
humanity.  The  depths  of  tenderness  in 
this  man  are  stirred  by  the  spectacle  of 
hideous  suffering  in  which  he  imagines 
all  persons  but  himself  to  live  and  move 
and  have  their  being.  He  will,  therefore, 
be  the  spokesman  for  humanity's  pain. 
He  will  speak  for  the  chained  Prome- 
theus, and  call  the  world  to  witness  its 
own  sorrow  and  revise  its  creed  of  a  loving 
Divinity.  His  pessimism,  then,  is  sympa- 
thetic and  temperamental:  he  cannot  see 
life  in  any  other  way.  But  the  shadow 
of  his  works  is  lightened  by  a  sense  of 
humour  deliciously  keen  and  true.  His 

31 


Shaksperian  shepherds  touch  the  springs 
of  loving  laughter  in  our  hearts,  and 
make  an  irresistible  appeal  by  their  un- 
worldly harmlessness.  Furthermore  his 
books  are  artistic  wholes,  living  organ- 
isms, examples  of  what  novels  should  be. 
Such  a  story  as  The  Return  of  the  Native 
is  entirely  beyond  the  power  of  most  con- 
temporary writers. 


IN  our  review  of  the  century  we  are 
purposely  omitting  everything  but 
pure  literature.  Of  historical,  scientific, 
theological,  political,  and  religious  writ- 
ers there  have  been  enough  and  to  spare: 
we  are  confining  ourselves  to  men  of  let- 
ters. Outside  of  the  fields  of  poetry  and 
the  novel,  the  greatest  figure  of  the  cen- 
tury is  unquestionably  Thomas  Carlyle. 
His  influence  was  so  mighty  that  even 
if  there  should  be  a  public  conflagration 
of  every  one  of  his  books,  his  spirit  would 


still  be  a  potent  force;  for  he  impressed 
himself  so  deeply  upon  the  men  of  the 
fifties  and  sixties  that  he  has  become  a 
part  of  the  inheritance  of  later  genera- 
tions. His  trumpet  call  to  duty  is  still 
ringing  in  our  ears ;  and  our  hearts  are 
renewed  within  us  as  we  remember  his 
familiar  watchwords.  This  grim  prophet, 
who  looked  upon  the  so-called  progress 
of  the  age  with  gloomy  eyes,  might  have 
seen  some  hope  in  the  facl:  that  the  people 
of  the  very  age  he  despised,  listened  most 
eagerly  to  his  teachings.  The  more  vio- 
lently he  flogged  them,  the  more  keenly 
they  seemed  to  enjoy  the  scourge.  And 
the  reason  for  this  is  plain.  Wholly  apart 
from  his  tremendous  force  and  power  for 
righteousness,  he  was  one  of  the  greatest 
literary  artists  that  England  has  ever  pro- 
duced. As  a  portrait-painter  his  accuracy 
is  thrilling;  in  depicting  the  grotesque 
he  has  no  equal  among  the  moderns;  and 
his  humour,  always  grim,  is  ever  spon- 
taneous and  seizes  us  with  contagious 

33 


iRllSfein,    force.  He  is  never  dull,  and  to  read  him 
•H*    is  a  perpetual  delight.  In  his  case  the 
style  was  certainly  the  man;  and  he  seems 
destined  to  rank  in  a  place  all  by  himself. 


anfc 

RUSKIN  also  spoke  out  loud  and 
bold,  but  too  often  he  was  hoarse. 
He  performed  an  inestimable  service  for 
his  century  by  revealing  to  English  Phi- 
listines the  beauties  and  glories  of  art.  He 
is  still  an  inspiration  to  many,  but  his 
reputation  is  surely  diminishing.  That  no 
one  was  ever  written  down  except  by 
himself  is  as  true  now  as  on  the  day  when 
it  was  first  spoken;  and  the  wild  inco- 
herent ravings  of  Ruskin  have  not  only 
raised  a  laugh  among  the  unskilful,  but 
have  made  the  judicious  grieve.  Had  he 
confined  his  sphere  to  matters  on  which 
he  was  an  acknowledged  authority,  he 
would  stand  out  to-day  much  clearer 
than  is  actually  the  case.  How  strangely 
34 


different  is  the  position  of  Charles  Lamb !  lRu0fein, 
Without  a  tithe  of  Ruskin's  moral  ear- 
nestness,  he  had  such  delightful  amenity, 
such  wideness  of  mercy,  and  so  delicate 
and  pervasive  humour  that  it  is  possible 
his  works  will  be  read  with  pleasure  after 
Ruskin  has  become  merely  a  name.  Over 
the  pages  of  the  Essays  of  E/ia  hovers  an 
immortal  charm. 

Lander's  stately  prose  has  a  small  but 
selecl  circle  of  admirers,  and  some  of  his 
work  is  gold.  However,  he  seems  destined 
in  another  hundred  years  to  join  the  il- 
lustrious dead  whose  names  are  familiar 
to  all  students  of  literary  history,  but 
whom  nobody  reads.  That  is  already  the 
case  with  Southey, —  whose  verse  was  not 
mentioned  in  the  review  of  the  poets, 
simply  because  readers  have  decided  to 
let  him  alone, —  a  man  who  still  has  a 
great  fame,  but  no  friends — not  even  an 
enemy.  The  gentle  Leigh  Hunt  is  also 
receding,  but  for  a  different  reason:  he 
is  not  dull,  but  faint.  Many  other  once 

35 


noted  authors  may  be  classed  in  either 
or  both  of  these  two  groups. 

Of  the  literary  critics  of  the  century, 
Coleridge  remains  unsurpassed.  He  is  at 
once  the  most  profound  and  the  most 
subtle.  Matthew  Arnold  enjoyed  an  enor- 
mous vogue,  and  at  times  seemed  to  ap- 
proach the  chair  of  literary  dictator, — 
vacant  since  the  death  of  Dr.  Johnson. 
But  he  did  not  reach  it,  and  he  could  not 
have  filled  it.  He  was  an  excellent  ex- 
ample of  the  farthest  limit  attainable  by 
culture,  refinement,  and  real  talent  un- 
accompanied by  genius.  The  reputation 
of  Macaulay  sagged  fearfully  some  thirty 
years  ago,  till  it  seemed  about  to  part  in 
twain.  Lately  there  has  been  a  reaction  in 
his  favour,  and  he  will  remain  as  a  model 
of  one  form  of  literary  art.  It  may  be  that 
he  belongs  to  rhetoric  rather  than  to  lit- 
erature. There  are,  at  any  rate,  few  mo- 
dern writers  better  worth  studying  for 
purposes  of  exposition  or  dialectic.  The 
astonishing  vigour  and  clarity  of  his  Ian- 

36 


guage,  the  martial  movement  of  his  spir- 
ited  sentences,  his  sound  common-sense,  £ 
and  a  certain  core  of  health  will  keep  S\ff,pL, 
much  of  his  work  alive.  He  represents 
the  typical  educated  Englishman,  both 
in  his  strong  qualities  and  in  his  uncon- 
querable prejudices;  as  we  read  him,  he 
produces  the  peculiar  illusion  of  being 
yet  in  the  land  of  the  living.  We  seem  to 
see  his  face  and  to  hear  his  voice. 


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